


The Art of the Hangover

by BulimicSpacePug



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: I'm so sorry, Other, complete and utter crack, don't stick your dick in salsa though, i did that once and it was a bad move, it's just a joke okay, what the fuck have I done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulimicSpacePug/pseuds/BulimicSpacePug
Summary: Moral of the story: don't let Charlie near the salsa.





	

It’s long past noon when Jordon stumbles into the lounge, and of course he’s hungover as fuck, not that his bandmates seem to notice. The light is unbearable, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t give to crawl back into his bunk, but there’s neither water nor painkillers there, and if the guys had any intention of taking pity on him, it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He groans and rubs his eyes, and George looks up from his book. He and Danny are on the sofa, and Dylan is still sprawled out on the floor, either too tired or too stoned to look up. Matt and Jorel are leaning in the frame of the open door, the former with a cigarette in hand, but the drummer nods a bit in acknowledgement. 

“You’re up,” George notes.

“Thanks for noticing,” Jordon grumbles. Danny stands from his spot next to the rapper — good ol’ Danny, always looking out for his bros — and pads to the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water and a painkiller.

“You feeling alright?” he asks as Jordon downs the water. He looks as awful as Jordon feels, but then, everyone looks thoroughly fucked up except for George. 3 Tears had gone and taken it upon himself to keep an eye on the others, and for a moment, Jordon envies him.

“Sure,” Jordon replies dryly. Truth be told, he can’t remember much about the previous night.

“Who’s gonna tell him?” Jorel asks as though reading the other man’s thoughts. 

“Tell me what?” Jordon demands.

“I don’t wanna hear any more jokes about my sexuality,” Matt calls, taking one last drag of his cigarette before crushing the butt beneath his heel.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jordon asks, panicking. If they’re implying what he thinks they are — if he was really that blackout drunk that he took home another man — then he’s going to lose it. Dylan lifts his head from the ground slowly, laboriously, then drops it again and laughs.

“Charlie Scene,” he says between snickers, “I saw ya stick ya dick in the salsa.”

And then it hits him like a ton of bricks, and he almost wishes that he _had_ turned gay while he was shitfaced, because that would be easier to live down than this. Sure, it would mean no more “Da Kurlzz sucks dick” jokes for a long, long time, but anything is better than this, because he could almost live with being a faggot, almost. 

But no. He just had to go and fuck the salsa.


End file.
